


I Live Among the Alarms

by stardropdream



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Crossdressing, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-23
Updated: 2014-10-23
Packaged: 2018-02-22 06:43:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2498390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardropdream/pseuds/stardropdream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a drunken confession to a secret desire, Aramis decides to indulge Porthos in the form of lace and silk. “Nice beard, milady,” Porthos says with a snort, once he feels he has control over his tongue again.  He grins.  “How rude,” Aramis says around a laugh, not looking the least bit offended.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Live Among the Alarms

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jlarinda](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jlarinda/gifts).



> Birthday fic for [JL](http://jlarinda.tumblr.com/), who is awesome and indulges all my portamis feels (and I along with her, of course). And so to complete the beautiful tradition in fandom in which friends gift porn to other friends, I give you... this fic! Written for the prompt of Aramis wearing a dress and the secondary request of "undress/strip tease", which I didn't indulge nearly as much as the first prompt. 
> 
> Please pardon inaccuracy in historical feminine clothing (although in my defense, the show itself is rather inaccurate in terms of feminine clothing, so). Song title is blatantly stolen from lyrics from a New Pornographers song (har har, apt band name) that I listened to on repeat while writing lol.

“So there wasn’t much in way of wine, but I –” begins Porthos as he opens the door to Aramis’ quarters with little fanfare, staring down at the bottle he holds before looking up and stopping short with a quiet, “— oh.” 

“I really hope you have more to say than that,” is Aramis’ somewhat smug reply. He sits on the bed, lips pursed demurely, completely nonchalant about the fact he’s wearing a dress. 

The corset and skirts are even edged with some lace, all silk and some ruffles, looking more expensive than most things Porthos has seen in his entire life – and Porthos briefly wonders just where Aramis has stolen the clothing from in order to present him with this sight tonight. What poor lady (stretched out beneath him, cooing and arching) was convinced to lend him not just a token of her esteem, but an entire ensemble? Or perhaps he just stole it away in the dead of night. Or perhaps he just purchased it outright for himself, giving little thought to the scandal of it. Aramis grins at him, and shifts, leaning back on one arm, and crosses his legs under the skirts, the fabric pooling in soft folds around his hips and across his knees. The matching kerchief hangs around his neck, laced and linen. Porthos can see the rise and fall of his chest through the bodice as Aramis breathes out, calm and entirely too pleased with himself. 

“So?” Aramis asks with that same, self-satisfied grin. “What do you think?” 

“Nice beard, milady,” Porthos says with a snort, once he feels he has control over his tongue again. He grins. 

“How rude,” Aramis says around a laugh, not looking the least bit offended. He slides his hands down the firm boning of the corset and settles them on his hips, jutting one out in a mockery of a prostitute from the streets, and his grinning and sparkling eyes belie any transgression. “You’re such a brute. Now get over here.” 

Porthos laughs – can’t help it, it barks out of him without even thinking of it – and crosses the room over to him, setting the bottle of wine down along the way and removing his hat as he bends down and kisses Aramis gently, smiling to feel the sweet curve of Aramis’ own smile as he responds. He cups Aramis’ face, brushes his thumbs across his cheeks, and kisses him soundly, encouraged by the soft hum from Aramis. He feels buoyant, like he’s already half-drunk with it without having even opened the bottle of wine. When he pulls back, now closer, he can see some flowers that Aramis has purposefully woven into his hair. He smells of the flowers, a mixture of the wild blooms and a perfume dabbed behind his ears and in the hollow of his throat. 

“What’s the occasion?” Porthos asks, brushing his fingers lightly through his hair, avoiding the flowers so as not to dislodge them. 

“Oh, there’s a joke to be made about teaching you about women, I’m _sure_ ,” Aramis says with a laugh, “But then, you know full-well how to remove a dress, I think.” He drapes his arms over Porthos’ shoulders, keeps him close, smiling up at him wickedly and arching a little to meet him – and Porthos stoops down again to accommodate him. “You clearly don’t remember the _occasion_ , my darling, but you confessed to liking this idea when very drunk a few weeks ago. I thought I should surprise you, but I should have known you’d be a forgetful fool about it.” 

“Been thinking about this a lot, have you?” Porthos laughs, and Aramis merely shrugs and then kisses him again, gently. He swallows around Porthos’ soft, deep chuckle, drags his teeth slowly over Porthos’ bottom lip until he can draw out a soft moan of pleasure for his efforts. 

Porthos remembers, of course – remembers being sprawled onto his back, Aramis bent over him, moaning out to him, all the fantasies and thoughts he’s stored up just thinking about Porthos, dipped his mouth down and tasted the wine on his tongue, and Porthos was gone, gone to the wine and gone to the sinister touch of Aramis’ hands and tongue and cock, and he remembers Aramis coaxing out his fantasies in turn, never laughing at them, only cherishing each word with a quiet murmur of future promise. Porthos remembers feeling lighter than air with Aramis – always remembers that freedom, that laughter, that bruising happiness of being held and understood and treasured. 

“So what are you going to do to me?” Aramis asks, once they pull back from that kiss, eyes twinkling. 

“What do you think?” Porthos laughs and bends down as if to kiss Aramis again – only Aramis is drawing back with a wicked laugh. 

“Well you’ll just have to wait,” Aramis tuts, and ignores Porthos’ soft growl in reply, pushing him away and standing up. He grins at Porthos as he sways close again, draping his arms over his shoulders and pressing his forehead to his. “I won’t let you rip this dress, and I’ve seen you trying to sew with those big fingers of yours. _I’ll_ be unlacing the corset, thank you kindly.” 

“I’m not that bad,” Porthos protests, laughing. 

“You’re worse,” Aramis says, not quite a dismissal, but certainly teasing. Porthos growls again, leans in to kiss him, and Aramis laughs as he tips his head back. 

“I don’t remember you complaining about my big fingers when they were inside you last,” Porthos mutters, biting at his lip.

Aramis laughs again, delighted, and does an overly exaggerated shrug just to be obnoxious. “Oh, I think complaining was the last thing on my mind.” Porthos makes another soft sound again, drags his hands over his hips, and Aramis squirms, laughing, “Patience, my dear Porthos.” 

“Fuck patience,” Porthos growls, and kisses along his jaw, biting lightly at his ear once he reaches it. Aramis laughs again, more breathless this time, hands sliding into his hair at the back of his neck and kneading gently down over his shoulders. “You and I deal with very different ladies, anyway. None of this tight corset and lace and kerchief business.” 

Aramis tuts again, and slides his hands down Porthos’ back, and lower, cupping his backside through his breeches and drawing him in closer, so that Porthos presses up to him, feels the hard line of his cock through the folds of the dress. 

“I’m sure you’ll be hard-pressed…” Aramis pauses with that to grin and wiggles his hips lightly against Porthos’, “to find a lady that’s quite as pretty as I am.” 

He knows that Aramis is waiting for Porthos’ usual showering of compliments of just how pretty Aramis is (and there have been times that Porthos has practically begged it, cried it out with the weight of his heart in his throat, holding Aramis tight to him and praising his beauty, sweat and slick and lips between them), so instead he just grins and shrugs, lifting a hand to tug a little on his beard in reply. 

Predictably, Aramis pouts. Which just makes Porthos snort out a soft laugh, smiling lightly. 

“You’re very pretty,” he relents with a sigh, and Aramis lets him kiss him, smiling. 

They kiss for a long moment, just focusing on that – on the hot breath between them, on the slide of their mouths, the curves of their smiles. Porthos thinks he could spend years kissing Aramis (has spent years kissing Aramis) and never get tired of the way his lips curve, the arch of his tongue, the glint of his teeth. Aramis, for all his ridiculousness, never fails to surprise.

Porthos then picks Aramis up easily, slinging him into his arms and ignoring (or perhaps encouraged by) Aramis’ little gasp of surprised laughter, arms curling around his neck and leaning up to keep kissing him happily, nestled into Porthos’ arms and letting the skirts twirl out around him. He is strong in his arms, but the dress is soft and silken, sliding over his hands as if made of water. 

And then Porthos just tosses him onto the bed and crawls up after him, kissing him deeply as Aramis sighs out into his kiss, whispering his name in encouragement as Porthos’ hands smooth down over the folds of the skirts, then skips up over his boots and traces up underneath, stroking over the stockings leading all the way up to his thighs, to the hint of lace and silk and chemise. 

“Beard and chest hair,” Porthos jokes, planting a soft kiss to the dip below Aramis’ throat, tastes the tang of his perfume, then slides down over the expanse of his chest peeking out beyond the dress. Beneath the dress, he skids his fingertips very lightly against him and grins as he adds, “And a rather impressive cock, it seems.” 

Aramis makes a soft sound, something like holding back a laugh and a desperate moan at just the simplest of touches. “A true gentleman never remarks on hair on a chest, my darling.” 

“But the cock’s alright?” Porthos laughs.

“One may always remark upon my particularly stunning assets,” Aramis simpers, ever gracious and benign. He arches, his hips rolling up leisurely, seeking out a more concrete touch but Porthos is already drawing his hand back.

“Oh you love it when I re _mark_ ,” Porthos snorts, and bites down on his collarbone to demonstrate, suckling until there’s a small mark left there.

Aramis breathes out a laugh, but does look pleased – and just a little more flushed than before. “Very clever, love.” 

“That’s me,” Porthos says with a shrug, biting at the slope of his neck. “I’m a goddamn genius.”

“That you are,” Aramis sighs, cupping his hands over the back of his head and guiding him along his neck, arching and breathing out. 

“Now are you gonna take off that corset of yours, or am I really going to have to rip it off?” Porthos growls.

“You shall do no such thing!” Aramis says with mock outrage and scandal. “You’ll just have to be _patient_ , darling.” He laughs when Porthos’ response is a growl, and he leans backwards, lounging against the headboard and beginning to relax, curling his fingers into Porthos’ hair. “Enjoy the view. I’ll be naked soon enough. For now, though… You’re wearing far too many clothes. Off with you, then. Strip off.” 

Porthos laughs. “There’s that bossiness.” 

But he also obeys, leaning back and away from Aramis, tugging at his clothes with little ceremony and stripping his way out of his coat and tunic, tossing them aside easily after only fumbling with his belt briefly. He kicks off one of his boots and leans further into Aramis, seeking to kiss him, which Aramis accepts with a lofty kind of grace, one of the sleeves slumping down off his shoulder in a way Porthos isn’t entirely sure isn’t purposeful. 

Once Aramis pulls back with a small smile, tilting his head when Porthos ducks his to kiss that shoulder, he merely arches against Porthos’ touch. Porthos slides his hands out from beneath the dress and down his front, tracing along the laces of his corset, the delicate folds of the skirts pooling at his hips. 

“I believe there was something else you wanted, monsieur,” Aramis breathes out, and curls his hand around Porthos’ wrist and guides it down, pressing it up against his cock through the fabric of the dress. Porthos groans a little, slides his palm down over the hot heat, and crawls up between Aramis’ legs. “But,” he drawls out happily as he rocks up against his hand. “I believe I also commented on how you’re wearing far too many clothes.” 

Porthos laughs, leans back again, and finishes the task of kicking off his boots. 

“Mmm,” Aramis hums, sliding his hands down Porthos’ chest, tugging appreciatively on his breeches without untying them, merely tugging them down over one sharp cut of his hipbone. “Ever been fucked by a man in a dress?” 

Porthos barks out a laugh. “Ever been fucked while wearing a dress?”

“Well,” Aramis sighs, “Both are rather enticing, aren’t they?” 

“Yeah,” Porthos murmurs, pushing up the skirts to try to get up underneath again, to dip beneath and drag his mouth and hand over his cock, to feel the billowing folds of the dress drape around him. But Aramis bats his hands away and smoothes the dress back out again. 

“Patience,” Aramis reminds him.

“Damn your patience,” Porthos says again, more vehemently this time, although he laughs a moment later and lifts his hands away, holding them up in a sign of surrender. “What would you have me do, then?” 

“Kiss me,” Aramis laughs and Porthos is quick to obey, cupping his face and kissing him deeply, licking up the noises of encouragement Aramis breathes out against him, mouth warm and wet against his. He laughs as Porthos’ fingers slide against his hair and whispers, “Mind my flowers.” 

Porthos laughs, mumbles a quiet _damn your flowers_ and kisses him more fully – in just the way he knows Aramis likes, in just the way he knows will make Aramis sigh. 

And indeed, Aramis makes a soft, whining sound and sinks his hands into Porthos’ hair, drawing him in close. Kissing him is wet, too wet, and Porthos remembers days when they seemed to always crash together – Porthos fast and desperate, Aramis desperate in his own right but slower-moving, teasing out words and syllables from Porthos’ lips. He remembers Aramis laughing against his kisses, whispering into his mouth about teaching him how to properly kiss, teaching him after long and leisurely afternoons spent only in his bed, telling him, showing him, stumbling upon all the hidden spots and things he wants to show Porthos, as if Porthos is a mere virgin, as if Porthos is an innocent. And Porthos remembers growling into those kisses, remembers pinning Aramis down and kissing him, unafraid and knowing he’ll be kissed back, knowing that the legs wrapping around his waist and the fingers clutching at his back are doing so because he damn well knows what he’s doing. He remembers Aramis moaning and laughing breathlessly against his mouth in turn, grinning and staring up at him like Porthos had created the very universe, all for the sake of simply knowing and exploring new things together. 

He kisses him for a long moment and then pulls back, mouths his way down his neck and over his throat, suckles on his adam’s apple however briefly and pulls back to kiss down his collar and along the expanse of his chest left exposed above the dress. His hands cup his hips, hold him down against the bed and kisses the spot above his heart, kisses along the slope of the hemline. Aramis laughs, breathless, fingers curled in his hair and guiding him along. 

And then Porthos ducks his head and just kisses down the intricate seems of the dress, following the lines of the corset and bodice, kissing over his chest and stomach, touch light as he travels down the dress. Aramis’ laugh this time is a little more weighted with his arousal, and the touch to his hair is more direct. 

When Porthos puts his mouth on him, however brief, he can feel Aramis – hot and hard – beneath the layers of lace and silk. His mouth is warm and wet and he feels Aramis’ cock twitch, followed shortly by a low moan as he rocks his hips up just barely, fingers touching at his hair. Porthos can picture it. The dress is probably dragging down hard against him, a different sensation altogether, silk sliding down hard cock, and Porthos flicks his tongue out occasionally and mouths at the tip once he finds it, feeling its slow curves and gentle arch even through the dress and he’s not usually one for teasing, not usually one for the patience or the time, not when Aramis is devastating in his noises and the way he writhes his hips on the bed, but this time he somehow manages, if only because he knows how it drives Aramis wild – glances up at him to see the way his hair falls in his eyes, the way one flower knocks loose from behind his ear and falls onto the bed.

And because, at the heart of it, even if teasing is more up Aramis’ alley, he still lifts away before Aramis can lose himself too badly, and grins when Aramis whines at the loss, tugging him up instead to kiss him heatedly, sucking on his lips and diving deeper, demanding more of him. 

Porthos slides his hands under the dress again and Aramis arches, pushing up against his hands as if he can’t even stop himself, and Aramis grabs his face forcefully and kisses him harder, pushes him back and climbs into his lap instead, thrusting down against him, grinding down against him. And Porthos wishes he could do a thousand things at once, can’t choose for want of touching him, for want of being touched, for wanting to feel that silk sliding down against his stomach, to feel the pooling of lace and fabric between them, to kiss the slope of his skin from the slumping of the dress falling away piece by piece – but there isn’t time to do everything he wants, he feels desperate with it. 

And it’s only a cool touch of Aramis’ hands against his shoulders, sliding up the back of his neck, that anchors him back down again, Aramis sucking on his lips and kissing him deeply, murmuring to him that there’s time, there’s always time, just have some patience, darling—

And Porthos obeys him, just as he always does. He drags Aramis down into his lap more fully, rocks his hips up to meet him, grips tight at his thighs, slides up to cup his hips, kisses him like he’s desperate for breath, and Aramis sighs and moans and nips at his bottom lip, lingers close and squirms in his lap, murmuring quiet pleas and compliments against his mouth, smiling, clinging to him. 

“Porthos,” Aramis sighs, breathing out against his mouth. “Fuck me? In the dress. Just do it.” 

Porthos moans, can’t even laugh at the way Aramis holds tight to him, and can only nod – can’t even tease him for not being able to hold out on his own patience. They both fumble, searching out for the little bottle of oil Aramis always has hidden away. Eventually, it’s Aramis who seizes it, curls his fingers around it and presses it into Porthos’ hand. He shifts back, collecting the dress into his hands and spread his legs a little, getting comfortable above his lap despite the cumbersome expanse of dress. 

Porthos merely watches him, hungry and mesmerized by the way Aramis moves, the way his hair falls to frame his face, the way the dress’ folds fall to frame his hips and thighs. He slicks his fingers up with the oil and watches the way Aramis smiles, indulgent and pleased, bites at his lip in a way that is entirely purposeful but speaks straight to Porthos’ cock. 

“Sure you want me to be the one to slick you up, since you were insulting my handiwork earlier?” Porthos teases as Aramis drapes himself over him and makes quick work to adjust the dress around them so that it falls elegantly, draping over the edge of the bed and stretched taut across his hips. Free to move and straddle him properly, Aramis just grins and rocks down a little against Porthos’ cock in a thoroughly filthy way. 

“I said you couldn’t untie a corset,” Aramis laughs, and curls his fingers around Porthos’ wrist, guiding it down and under the dress so that it presses up against him instead. He sighs out and twists up, and another flower falls from his hair to land on the trail of the dress behind him. “This, I think, is perfectly suited for you, my lovely brute of a man. As I believe I also said.” 

“Glad you have such faith in me,” Porthos laughs, and from anyone else such words from Aramis would leave them with more broken bones than broken words, but from Aramis it’s merely poetry, merely an expression of his own affection – drawing Porthos in and drawing Porthos down, making him human and whole again. 

Aramis’ smile is genuine, light and airy as he looks down at him. “Always, my dear.” 

Porthos smiles at Aramis, heavy with his affection, and strokes his fingers over him, not pressing in but spreading the oil gently through the crease of his backside. 

Aramis sighs out and then laughs, too, breathlessly. And if there was ever something that Porthos loves about this – loves about having him, holding him, it’s that laughter. Always that laughter. 

Porthos, for all his blunt force, takes his time with Aramis, presses one finger into him and strokes, slowly, feeling him open up beneath his touch. Aramis, for his part, makes the soft, hitching sounds that Porthos loves, and squirms down even from just one finger. His hands are large, fingers callused from endless years of soldiering, but they’re careful now as they stretch Aramis – first one finger and then, at Aramis’ breathless urging, a second. 

Aramis hitches his hips up against Porthos, and he feels the fabric of the dress against his bare stomach, feels the slow arch of Aramis’ cock pressed up hot and flushed between them, only a thin dress separating skin from skin, and Porthos can feel the way it swells and twitches when Porthos strokes into him with particular care or particular force. 

“You want more?” Porthos whispers as he catches Aramis’ mouth with his, whispers out the words as he kisses him. His voice is low, husked over in just the way that draws out Aramis’ own replies, tormenting him. “You want three, you think?”

“Yes,” Aramis sighs out, tilts his head, lets a flower fall onto Porthos’ shoulder. “Yes,” he whispers again, grips tight to Porthos and rocks down to meet his hand. “Fill me up.” 

His voice is different now – lower, now, less teasing. He wants it now. He’s lost to it now, not just teasing and drawing it out, but wanting it. And Porthos’ own breath is short, his own words lost and broken-off and he’s thrusting his hand into him to get him ready because, for all he wants it, he also never, ever wants to hurt him. 

Porthos knows the feeling of being anchored, of having Aramis holding him down, holding him tight, leaving him to breathe and kiss and gasp out, to fully, fully appreciate being human and alive and _living_. He remembers all the things he and Aramis have done over the years together – the kind of quiet, broken joy of being known so completely, understood so fully, that just a touch is enough to draw Aramis back out from his shadows, that just a touch is enough to remind Porthos of who he is and what he needs. The sharp stab of his thoughts twists up inside his stomach and he smiles at Aramis, finds Aramis smiling back at him – understanding without words. How fully they trust, how fully they remember – body and heart and soul. Smiles and eyes. 

He twists his fingers up inside of Aramis, and delights in his gasp. Delights in the way his hands dig into his shoulders then sweep down over his back, then up into his hair – touching at him, anchoring him. 

“Porthos,” Aramis gasps out as he kisses him. “Please – it’s enough. Please.” 

“It’s never gonna be enough for you, is it?” Porthos whispers against his mouth as he twists the three fingers up inside of him. “You can never get enough, can you?”

“No,” Aramis moans and kisses him deeper, desperate for it now. 

And Porthos knows that he could draw out more pleas, he could draw it out enough until Aramis is sobbing and begging for it. But Aramis’ hands are falling to his beeches, tugging at the ties, freeing his cock and shoving the last of his clothes down over his thighs, squirming up against him, lifting his dress enough so that their cocks catch and slide together – and Porthos bites back a small shout of surprise that melts away into a loud moan instead. When he blinks his eyes open again, Aramis is grinning at him triumphantly, his hair disarrayed and all the flowers gone now, fallen into their laps. 

Porthos touches his face with his free hand, glides his thumb along his cheekbone, overcome with a strange force of affection winning out over his arousal. Aramis’ smile is an answer, soft and gentle and delighted, looking at him and only him – as if he is the only one. 

“Come on,” he whispers, leans in and bumps his forehead to Porthos’, strangely chaste throughout it all. “Fuck me, love. Just don’t rip my dress.” 

“I’d be more worried about the mess,” Porthos laughs as he draws his hand back from inside of him, smiles sympathetically when Aramis groans at the sudden emptiness of it all. 

It’s with practiced ease that Aramis lifts himself away enough for Porthos to slick his hand over his cock. Even with the folds of the dress blocking visual guidance, it only takes a little fumbling for Porthos to grip himself at the base and guide himself to Aramis. Aramis shifts and hitches his hips until he’s in the proper position, hands fisted in the dress as he sinks down a little, taking in only the head of Porthos’ cock. 

Porthos drags Aramis down and sighs out in a hitched, pleased way as Aramis sinks down onto him, panting above him and steadying himself one hand on Porthos’ shoulder, grip tight, and he’s laughing, breathless, saying something about Porthos’ lack of technique, about how fast and impatient he always is – as if he doesn’t always coax it out of Porthos, as if he isn’t just as impatient in these moments. Teases him as if he doesn’t tease and linger and drag it out for as long as he possibly can – simply because it drives Porthos insane with his touch and smiles. 

Just because he knows that, at the end of it, Porthos will throw him down and stroke into him with little finesse but with enough passion to satisfy him. Just because, at the end, that’s what Aramis likes. 

He laughs now, smoothing his hands over his shoulders, down his chest, grabs at his hands to let him slide them down over his sides in turn, hands gliding over the fabric of the dress – and Aramis isn’t quiet, he’s never quiet, and he makes loud, blissful noises, beautiful vowels and sharp fragments and syllables with no function at all other than to make him sound as breathless and happy as his smile indicates. 

Porthos lifts his head and kisses Aramis, affectionate and desperate – somewhat artless, but it isn’t as if he cares, isn’t as if he doesn’t already know that Aramis will shape his kisses, sculpt them into something gentle and savoring. He rocks his hips forward, drops his hand down so he can fist around Aramis’ cock. Aramis groans into the kiss and Porthos squeezes, slides his fist down over Aramis’ cock, swallows around Aramis’ purr of contentment.

Porthos sets the pace then – for his efforts, it’s slow enough to draw out Aramis’ satisfaction, but not so slow that Porthos becomes impatient. He rocks up into Aramis, who slides down to meet him with a practiced kind of comfort. Aramis slides his hands over Porthos – down across his chest, tracing over scars he’s helped shape, settles on his shoulders, grips tight. 

Porthos lets his hands explore over the dress, cupping around his ribs to guide him down against his cock. Aramis grins at him, squirms into his lap and sucks in a sharp breath so that Porthos can feel the expansion of his lungs beneath the whale bone and lace. Porthos drags his hands down, slides them over his hips, grips tight at the dress and just wants to rip it off of him for the satisfaction of Aramis’ outrage – protective as he’s been of the dress – but knows best to resist. He touches at Aramis’ stomach, heaving with each thrust, tightening as he squeezes around his cock. His fingers dance upwards across the corset’s ties, glide along the line between corset and fabric, brushes through the whispers of his chest hair. 

“Is it what you’d hoped it’d be?” Aramis asks as he thrusts down against his cock, twisting his hands up in the fabric of the dress and pressing up to him so that the expanse of Porthos’ chest is covered against the dress. 

“Yeah,” Porthos gasps out. “You – you know it’s always good, if it’s you.” 

“You’ll make the lady blush, my darling,” Aramis laughs – but indeed there’s the slightest flush against his cheeks at the compliment. 

The slide up and in is a long one, drawn out through Aramis’ thready exhale as the breath is pushed from him, arching up, gripping tight to Porthos. He presses his lips to the thrum of Porthos’ breath, lips sliding down his throat, curling a smile around his adam’s apple, laughs when the moan chokes out of Porthos, sinks his body down against Porthos with a needy little whimper of pleasure, laughing airily a moment later against his skin. 

“God,” he gasps out, grips Porthos tights, rocks his hips down like Porthos himself is religious expression. “God above, but I adore you.” 

Porthos fights back a near-hysteric laugh of his own and merely tightens his hold around him, holds him down close, feels the knot of his words pressing in his throat, but it’s never been a burden to say these things back – only ever a breathless moment when he thinks he’ll push too hard and Aramis will retreat. 

Instead, he turns his head, kisses his jaw, brushes his lips against his ear, and whispers, “You too. Always.” 

Aramis laughs again, but there’s a touch of self-deprecation there, something Porthos has always picked up on despite Aramis’ best efforts, and instead of chastising him for disbelieving, he turns his head and kisses him – deep and slow, draws out Aramis’ genuine laughter, his moans and his sighs. Feels him melt against him. Feels him sigh out happily when Porthos curls his arms around him again and holds him flush against his chest, lets the dress pool between them. Tries to reassure him, to prove to him, to demonstrate – every single time, every single goddamn time – just how much he means it when he says _always_. 

The dress is coming loose beneath the ties now, though, and it’s just the way Porthos likes it – slumped, on anyone else hinting at breasts, but here settles over Aramis’ shoulders like Porthos is still in the process of dressing him – and there’s sweat and the scent of sex clinging to them now and it’s all Porthos can do not to pump fast, slicked, good and deliberate into Aramis, instead teasing out the way he knows Aramis likes it – hard and fast in moments, deep and slow the next. 

Porthos loves the way that Aramis rides his cock – always has – and he grips tight to the dress to guide him down, fucking him and watching the way Aramis bounces against his lap, mouth open in a soft smile, moaning quietly with hitching, breathless little pleas for _more_ and _faster._ He likes the way he gets all breathless – loves the way he becomes desperate for him, sees that desire burning in his eyes as he slides down to meet him, bites at his lips, arches his neck, arches his back, pushes his chest out with gasping breaths, moans Porthos’ name. 

“More,” Aramis gasps out happily, and Porthos can’t do anything other than comply –pulls him down and kisses him, swipes his thumb across his lower lip and slips it into his mouth, moans around the kiss as Aramis suckles on it and kisses him sloppily. 

Aramis rocks down to meet him, biting down on his lip and then Porthos’, swallowing around the sounds they make, and Aramis always could tell when Porthos was going to come, could always tell by the way he loses his rhythm, the way he grips at Aramis’ hips just on the side of bruising, and Aramis only surges forward, kisses him more, pulls abruptly, squeezes around him, and Porthos gasps and moans against his mouth. 

Aramis gaps out a soft chuckle, breathless, although brief, and Porthos hates him and loves him all the more for being able to stay composed when they’re like this. He is beautiful and unnecessarily aware of it, smiles at him like it’s all he knows how to do, hair wild in his eyes, cock thick in Porthos’ hand, and Porthos growls out for want of holding him down, for rutting into him, for wanting every single inch and part of him – forever. And Aramis’ eyes are sparkling with his mirth, answering that growl with a wide smile and a breathless sigh of happiness as he fucks into Porthos’ hand and down onto Porthos’ cock. But that’s how Aramis is – he always loses himself in Porthos losing himself, always finds a stuttering of words and desires when he’s looking at the way Porthos twists up. When it’s just him, when it’s just his pleasure left to be had, he’s all smiles and control – it’s only when Porthos draws him over the edge along with him that Aramis forgets himself and forgets to hold on so tightly to his control. 

And then he’s coming, gripping down on Aramis tight to keep him in place, and Aramis exhales a soft gasp and lowers his head to Porthos’ shoulder, rocks his hips down to thrust against him, feels himself warmed from the inside out, presses sloppy kisses to Porthos’ shoulder, scrambles his hands up his back searching for purchase, anchoring himself down by gripping his shoulder blades, hands splayed, and whispers his name out in fragmented syllables. 

Porthos, for his part, is just as far gone as Aramis, thrusting up into him, hands tight on his hips, fingers slipping up to feel at the boning of the corset, to fist his hands in the folds of the skirts to keep him in place as Aramis wiggles down against him, milking him dry, thrusting down to the base of his cock and moaning, obscene and _loud_ , the dress caught between them and yet not denying him the feel of slick skin on skin. One hand lifts, curls tight in Aramis’ hair, and pulls him back to kiss him again. 

When Porthos comes back to himself, he’s thrusting up weakly into Aramis, gripping him tight, feeling the hot slide inside of Aramis. Aramis tilts his head back, flips the hair from his eyes, and smiles at Porthos like Porthos just finished hanging the moon and stars just for him.

“Hey,” he whispers, touches at Porthos’ face, kisses over the scar of his left eye. “Hey, beautiful…” 

“Shouldn’t I be saying that?” Porthos whispers, words drifting away when Aramis leans in to kiss him instead, pets his fingers through his hair. It’s just as well – this way, Aramis doesn’t see the way Porthos blushes at the words. 

“It certainly wouldn’t hurt,” Aramis agrees, threading his fingers through his hair and pulling back enough to press his forehead to his, sighing out happily and squirming a little in his lap, slipping free of Porthos but staying close. “Satisfied, darling?”

“More than you are at the moment, certainly,” Porthos mumbles, and squeezes his fingers around Aramis’ cock, eliciting a small cry of pleased surprise. “Do you want me to jerk you off? Or should I suck you off?” 

“Oh…” Aramis breathes out, which is hardly an answer at all.

Porthos starts stroking him, slow and firm, thumb circling over the cockhead. Aramis moans and gasps out, panting as he jerks his hips up, thrusting into his hand and scrambling to get a hold of Porthos, anchoring him down, and Porthos swallows thickly as he watches him. “You like that? Should treat you right after you took the time to dress up for me, you think?”

“Yes,” Aramis sobs out and he twists, rocking up hard into his touch. He’s grinning at him, biting his lip and squirming into his touch. “Please, Porthos.”

“Get that dress off,” Porthos whispers, kissing him. 

And while Porthos would happily stroke him off to a messy completion, he sits back with some effort, takes his hands off Aramis, and gestures to the bunch of skirts he was still fisting in one hand. 

“Go on,” he coaxes.

“You’re the devil,” Aramis laughs, and when he drops the dress, Porthos can clearly see where the curve of his cock presses against the fabric. But Aramis has always been one to rise to a challenge, and he smiles a little, low and eager, as his fingers trace up over the corset and bodice, letting his fingers purposefully drag along the fine stitches and the criss-cross of the laces. 

Porthos watches, mesmerized, by the movement of his fingers, by the way he undoes the little bow of his laces, already loosened from their movements. His sleeves are already slumped down over his arms, off his shoulders, and as he unties the first crosshatch, it slumps more, opens to his chest. 

Aramis shifts back, lets one leg drag up a little over the other, lets the skirts fall down over his thigh, and Porthos traces up the leg with his eyes, sees the slicked up mess he’s left if he tilts his head just right, but Aramis just laughs, kicking off his boots and unrolling his stockings inch by tantalizing inch. Porthos’ hands twitch to reach out and help him undress, but he forces himself to just watch. 

“What do you say, my dear Porthos?” Aramis asks as he sheds his boots and stockings. “Am I pretty enough for you?”

“You’ll do,” Porthos answers with a grin.

“Says the man who’s already come,” Aramis tuts, and smiles at him, titling his head so his hair falls to frame his face in a way he knows is becoming, undoes another cross of the tie of his corset, lets it slip a bit. He heaves out a great sigh, finally able to draw in a deep breath for the first time since putting it on. 

“Thanks to you,” Porthos laughs.

“Mmm,” Aramis hums. “And now I’m a mess thanks to _you_.”

“You love it,” Porthos teases, watches the way the dress falls forward on his dress, pooling at his hips. He reaches out and Aramis shakes his head, shifting backward, arching a little, untucking his arms from the sleeves of the dress and slowly, very slowly, pulling the silk and lace from him, until he’s naked before him, on his knees, cock hard, slight indents at his ribs from the corset’s work. 

“I suppose I do,” Aramis decides, and then tilts his head again, beckoning him closer with a finger. “Now then, my love. You promised to finish me off.” 

“And you know I’ll do anything to please you,” Porthos says, with overly dramatic weight added to his words – even when he happily reaches out to touch, drags Aramis in, watches the way Aramis crawls forward to him, kicks away the loose fabric, reaching out to drag his hands down Porthos’ front, settles into his lap again. 

“Tell me I’m pretty,” Aramis whispers as he leans in and kisses him. 

“The prettiest,” Porthos murmurs, fingers curling around his cock and strokes, palming him almost lazily as Aramis makes a soft, wavering sound into the kiss, squirming and rocking into the touch. 

Porthos holds him close, stroking him off, his other hand sliding down his back and lower, pressing two fingers into him easily from where he’s still slicked with oil and come, and Aramis gasps out in pleasure, rocking down harder as Porthos spreads his fingers inside of him, twists his hand over his cock. 

Aramis goes pliant against him, and it’s quick work to set him down onto his back again, stroke his fingers into him and bend down, placing a sloppy kiss to the tip of his cock. Aramis gasps out, fingers tightening in his hair, and Porthos smiles and hums out happily, bracing himself as he leans down and takes him into his mouth, suckling on the tip. Aramis’ cock his thick and it fills his mouth and Porthos smiles around it, slides down over the slight curve to it, drags his lips and tongue down over him and breathing out through his nose as he steadies himself, his two fingers pressing deep into him. 

“Oh,” Aramis sighs out, arches his hips. He moans out his name, tugs on his hair to draw him down closer, and Porthos follows the silent command, tilting his head and sliding his tongue down along the underside of his cock, jaw aching with it. He moves his lips and tongue over the slide of his cock, letting it become wet and sloppy, lapping at the curve of his cockhead, pillowing his lips and laving his tongue along the underside, moaning out his pleasure at it. 

He knows Aramis is close from the way he’s writhing, from the way he’s tightening around his hand, thrusting up shallowly into his mouth – no teasing now, hardly any means to draw it out. Porthos makes it messy, doesn’t care as he leaves sloppy kisses along the length of his cock, suckles at the head, leaves it all spit and tongue, lips moving delicately in places, tiny licks and flicks, draws out Aramis’ whines, and feels the tug of his fingers in his hair – demanding more. 

He stretches his mouth, sucks him down, and this time it’s too much for Aramis and he’s coming with a low moan, chokes back loud sounds before thinking better of it and letting himself shout them out in gasping, breathless curses and absolutions. His voice goes high and breathy and tight, just the way Porthos likes it, and he suckles around him, swallows him down, milks Aramis with his mouth and with his free hand stroking at the base, coaxing him through his orgasm. 

Once Aramis comes down, once he’s captured some breath again, lungs strained from first the corset and now his orgasm, he tugs at Porthos’ hair, breathlessly pleads for him to get closer, and Porthos scrambles up, sharing a sloppy, messy kiss with him and pressing up close to him, arms curling around him and keep him close. 

“Should I save the dress?” Aramis whispers with a smile as he kisses him. 

“Definitely,” Porthos moans and bites at his lip.

“Perhaps I can convince you to wear it next time,” Aramis laughs, bumping his nose lightly to his, stroking his hands over his chest and along his side and hip. 

“Definitely,” Porthos says again and grins in answer, which makes Aramis laugh more – breathless and savoring, eyes twinkling with secret promises for _more_ the next time.


End file.
